Lady and the Champ (51 page)

“Learn some manners, Romano,” I tell him. “You ever talk to Jess that way again, and I’ll straight-up kill you.”

I hear him spitting again as Jessica and I head back for the car. Apparently nobody’s thought to call the cops. Unsurprising. It’s probably not the first time they’ve seen somebody punched in the face outside Cartelli’s. I hustle her a little faster than she can walk in her heels, but I just want away from there.

“Cain,” she protests. “Cain, slow down. I’m going to fall and break my neck.”

I slow down a little so she can catch up, then, when we’re at the car, I grab her and kiss her. “You okay?” I ask when I’ve got her taste in my mouth again.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” She smiles at me. “You totally punched him to defend my honor.”

I shake my head, giving her a crooked smile back. “Yeah, I guess I did. You girls like that kind of shit?”

“I don’t know about girls, but I do.” She looks genuinely happy that I put her supposed fiancé on the ground. “He deserved it.”

“Yes, he did.” I’m not going to argue with her on that one. Romano’s an asshole. I can’t even think about him being with Jess without rage tightening my chest. He won’t treat her right. Won’t respect her. Won’t love her.

What do you care?

And that voice inside my head is right. I don’t care. I can’t care.

I pull the car door open and help Jess inside. “Let’s take you home.”

As we drive, her happiness seems to fade, leaving a pale, sober expression behind it.

“He’s right, you know,” she says.

“About what?”

“I’ll have to marry him. Pop will force me to. And then there’s no way I’ll ever get away from him. And Carmine…” She trails off.

“He’s not a good guy.”

She shivers. “No. He’s not.”

I clench my hands on the steering wheel, wondering what he’s done to her. I wonder how Spada could even think about marrying Jess to him, but it makes sense. He’s not looking for a good husband for his daughter. He’s looking for a good heir for his business. Romano’s definitely that. He’s got that thread of violence Spada’s always had. It’s what you need to be a mob boss. You can’t have a conscience and run that kind of an empire.

She runs a hand over her face, and I’m afraid she’s crying again. “There’s no point to any of it, is there?”

I stop the car on the road in front of the Spada house. I’ll drop her off here; if she’s got a car back at the fight venue, I’ll be sure that gets taken care of tomorrow. I don’t want her driving tonight. She’s too upset. “To what?”

“The classes. The school. Studying. Trying to carve out my own life.”

I don’t answer her. I don’t have an answer. I’m still trying to work that one out on my own life.

“Unless…” She trails off. She’s not looking at me. “Unless I can marry somebody else. Somebody who’s not Carmine.”

If she’d turned then, let her gaze meet mine, I probably would have laughed it off. But she doesn’t. She just stares resolutely out the window, and I know damn well what she’s trying to tell me.

“No.” I say, and she looks down at her hands. “That’s the shittiest idea in the history of shitty ideas. And it’s not going to happen, so don’t get your hopes up.” I lean over and kiss her, a little harder than maybe I want to. She needs to be reminded what this is. It’s not some girly love story. I’m not going to suddenly transform into a knight on a white horse and take her away from her mob-constructed castle tower.

She blinks. Maybe there’s a tear—I can’t tell. But she still doesn’t look at me. “Thanks for dinner,” she says quietly.

“Any time.”

“Right.” The word is clipped. She pushes the door open and heads up the driveway toward her house. To face her father. I fight back an urge to run after her, to protect her against whatever Spada might throw at her next. But this isn’t my business. It isn’t my world.

I wait until I see her go inside, then I start the car and leave her there.

 
A
pounding
on my bedroom door wakes me up the next morning. What the hell? I glance at the clock—it’s barely six in the morning. My brain is befuddled and confused. I’m not even sure what day it is for a few long seconds.

Then my father’s voice comes from the other side of the door. “Jessica! Get the fuck out here now! Right now! You hear me?”

Shit. I sit up. No way I’m going out there in my nightgown. “Just a minute,” I call, hoping the acknowledgement will calm him down a little.

No such luck. “You’ve got two minutes, and then I’m coming in if I have to take the door down.”

I hustle for the closet and grab the first thing I can get my hands on—a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. I scramble into them as fast as I can, my heart thudding hard. I know he really will take the door down if he decides it’s what he needs to do.

Pop yells again. “Is
he
in there with you?”

“What? What are you talking about?” I’m starting to figure out what’s going on, but it’s still muddled, the pieces disconnected in my brain.

“You know damn well what I’m talking about. “Get your ass out here, Jessica.
Right fucking now
.”

“Jesus!” I jerk the fly of the jeans closed and manage to work the button and the zipper, and then head for the door. My hands are shaking.

No. No. I can’t open that door. I should go out the bathroom window, run away across the back lawn. Run until he can’t find me anymore.

But that’ll never happen. It doesn’t matter where I go. He’ll find me, or he’ll send someone after me who will. There’s no way out from under him.

And then the choice is taken away from me anyway as the doorknob rattles and he shoves the door open. He used his master key.

A ripple of fury runs through me.

Nothing. I have
nothing
. No peace, no rights, no privacy. Only what this man will grant me. I belong to him, and no one will dispute that, not if they want to stay alive.

“Pop—” I start, but he’s on me in a half second, his hand twisting in my hair. “Shit! What the fuck?”

“You watch your language. Show your father some goddamn respect.” He jerks me toward the door, then down the hall. We’re headed for his office. I’m starting to cry; I can’t help it. Is this it? Is he going to kill me, right now, right in my own house?

Why, Jess? Why did you do it? Couldn’t just be the good little girl and keep your mouth shut and your knees together, could you?

No, actually, I couldn’t. No one should have to. This isn’t the fucking Dark Ages. I swallow hard, gathering myself. Pop’s grip on my hair lessens a little, but he still shoves me through the door to his office. I lurch, almost losing my balance and toppling onto the floor. My hands reach out, finding the desk before I fall.

And there, next to the desk, his nose swollen and a look of pure hatred on his face, is Carmine Romano.

Shit. Just when I thought this couldn’t get any worse.

I manage to collect myself, straightening, drawing a hand through my hair, adjusting my shirt. I don’t look at Carmine. I never want to look at him again. I don’t want to acknowledge my father, either, but he slams the door behind him and stands with his feet braced, arms crossed over his chest, his face a picture of barely controlled rage.

“You want to tell me exactly what the
fuck
you think you’re playing at?” His voice is a low growl. I don’t think I’ve ever been so afraid of him in my life.

At the same time, though, I’m hardening inside. The fear is turning into something else. I pull my spine that much straighter and look him in the face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Pop takes a menacing step forward, hands lowering, clenching into fists at his sides. “You know
exactly
what I’m talking about. McAllister had his hands all over you at the match last night, and after…” His gaze cuts to the side, to Carmine. “Well, you know damn well what happened after.”

“That’s none of your business.” I’m not going to let him run roughshod over me. I’m just not. I can’t. Not anymore.

He takes another step forward and then he suddenly just relaxes, the tension going out of him. His voice when he speaks is very quiet, very calm. And that’s the scariest thing about it. When he does this, I know he’s about as angry as it’s possible for him to get.

“Yes, it is very much my business. You are my
daughter
. Your actions reflect on this family. And you
will
do as I tell you.”

I can’t help it; I glance at Carmine, too. His face looks worse than it did last night, his eye swollen, his cheek a purplish color nearly down to his chin. All that with just one hit. The thought makes me absurdly pleased.
My
man did that to him. To protect me. “I won’t marry him,” I say, and my voice is quiet, too. “I won’t.”

“Jessica. You’re not going to have much choice. Cain’s a dead man. I need him for one more fight, and then he’s going to pay for touching my daughter.”

“It’s my
choice
, Pop—” But there’s no chance I’m going to get a word in edgewise. My opinions don’t matter here.

“And it was a bad one, Jess. Cain’s being taken care of. Right now. And when he’s gone, then you’ll do what I tell you. You’ll marry Carmine, and you’ll pay attention to this family, the way you should have been doing from the beginning.”

I clench my fists. “I will
not
marry Carmine. You can’t make me!” I feel—and sound—like a five-year-old. God. How has he managed to turn me into this?

Pop just shakes his head. I can see Carmine smirking out of the corner of my eye. That son of a bitch. I want to punch him in the face myself.

“No.” I can’t help it—the tears are back. I hate myself for it, but I’m so angry, so infuriated, and so afraid. Terrified. For Cain. For myself. My voice rises to a shriek. “If I want Cain, I’ll have him! There’s nothing you can do about it! I already slept with him!” I take a step backward toward the door as Pop takes a threatening step toward me. “Face it. I’m damaged goods. And I
will not
let you run my life!”

I whirl and head for the door, half expecting one or both of the men to stop me. But I hear Pop mumble something to Carmine behind me, and neither of them makes a move. I shove through the office door and head for the garage. I’ve got to get to Cain. Whatever’s happening to him right now, I have to stop it.

* * *

I
’m not
sure how I make it to the garage, much less to Cain’s place with the tears filling my eyes, blurring my vision, and the rage in my chest making it damn near impossible to breathe. But before I can quite process what’s happening, I’m powering down the road, and within ten minutes I’ve pulled up in front of Cain’s house. There are two black cars in the parking area that I know don’t belong to him. Pop’s men, I’m sure, and my heart beats even harder, if that’s possible. I feel like it’s about to explode.

He won’t kill him.
It’s a weak reassurance, but I know it’s true. Pop won’t have him killed quite yet. He said he needs Cain for one more fight. Then, I’m sure, all bets will be off.

I run up the stairs to the front of the condo and bang on the door like an idiot.
Sure, somebody’s going to come answer it. Good call, Jess.
It’s unlocked, though, I realize, and I push it open.

I can hear what’s going on before I even get close. The sound of fists on flesh, rawer even than the sounds of the fighting ring from last night. I hear helpless grunts—Cain. Low, menacing voices—whoever’s beating on him. I run toward the sounds.

Cain’s got one knee down on the floor, and two men in dark suits are pounding him. One of them has brass knuckles on; I can see the glint of the metal as he swings at Cain. Cain ducks, though, and the blow slides just past the point of his jaw. He’s bloodied up, but not much worse than he was last night. Apparently he’s been holding his own. Barely.

“Stop it!” I scream helplessly. “Stop it! Leave him alone!”

The men turn to look at me. One of them has hold of Cain’s shirt collar, and he doesn’t let go of it as he gives me a feral grin. “Ah, Cain, I see you need your girl to rescue you.”

“Fuck off,” says Cain, and lands a hard punch to the man’s jaw. The man crumples, and Cain lurches to his feet. The other man lunges toward him, but Cain ducks again, grabs him by the back of his jacket, and swings him into the nearby couch. I hear a cracking sound as the man’s head hits the couch’s wooden framework. He’s down for a few seconds and then staggers halfway to his feet. I head for Cain, even though he’s waving for me to stay still. I move in to help support him, but he’s got most of his weight balanced back on his feet again, and doesn’t really seem to need the assistance. I can smell the blood and sweat on him.

“Get the fuck out of my house,” he says to his attackers. The men both make their way back to their own feet. The first one, the one who took the punch to the jaw, straightens his jacket.

“We weren’t supposed to kill you,” he says, almost as if he didn’t just get the shit pounded out of him. “Next time, though…”

The bruise growing on his jaw means it should be hard for me to take him seriously, but his words send chills down my back. They’re serious about killing Cain. My own father is dead serious about killing the man I’ve—

That thought breaks off, because I don’t know how to finish it. The man I’ve what? Chosen to sleep with? Taken as a lover? Been thinking about marrying, even though it is, as Cain said, the shittiest idea in the history of shitty ideas?

Except maybe it’s not. Cain takes a sharp step toward the two men, and they depart, trying to act like they’re not scared of him. Two against one, and still they’re slinking away to lick their wounds. I glare in their direction, not that it helps anything. I wish I could set their stupid suits on fire with my eyeballs.

The door falls shut behind them, and I turn to Cain. “Are you okay?”

He knuckles his lip where it’s bleeding again. The cut from last night has opened up again, wider, and there’s a trail of blood running down his chin. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

From the way he rolls his shoulder, wincing, I think maybe he’s not, but I’m not going to argue with him. “Come on,” I tell him. “Let’s go get you cleaned up.”

I take his arm, though he doesn’t really need my support—he’s hurt but he’s not exactly off his feet—and he directs me to the bathroom. The last few steps, he’s a little unsteady, and I latch my arm around his waist, holding on to him. He takes a sharp breath, and I wonder if he’s been hit in the ribs or something.

“Sit,” I tell him, pointing to the closed toilet lid.

“Jess—”

“
Sit
.”

He sits. I start to unbutton his shirt, peeling it gently off him.

It looks like they beat him more along the torso than on his face. That makes sense if maybe they didn’t want to advertise the fact they’d beaten the shit out of him. I wonder if that order came from my father: “Not the face. Nothing that will show.” It’s the kind of thing he used to think about when he was smacking Mom around.

I feel my lips tightening against my teeth and force myself to focus on the present. Cain needs me. I ease the shirt down from his shoulders and take a good look at his body. I eye him with clinical detachment—it’s good practice for my future career, if nothing else. Disengage the emotion, the fear for him. Not to mention the desire. Just evaluate the injuries.

He’s got some heavy bruising along his ribs, right where my hand went when I went to grab him, trying to steady him as we walked into the bathroom. I touch the area again, lightly, and he winces.

“Broken rib?” I ask. My brain starts to race through all the things a broken rib could lead to. I redirect it to how a broken rib needs to be treated, since I’m pretty sure I’d know by now if he had a punctured lung.

“I don’t think so. They got me pretty hard there though.”

“Dammit.” So much for clinical detachment. I just can’t hold on to it. I clench my teeth and go rooting through the medicine cabinet. “This is my fault.”

“How is it your fault, Jess? I’m the one who insisted we go out to that restaurant. I’m the one who hit fucking Carmine in his fucking face.” He hesitates, rolling his shoulder again. When he speaks again it’s in an obstinate mutter. “I’d do it again, too.”

“Right.” I’ve got some alcohol and cotton balls, and I’m ready to clean his face. “Hold still. This is going to sting.”

But when I head for his cut lip with the cotton ball, he grabs my wrist. “Jess. It’s fine. I don’t need doctoring.”

“You’re a mess, Cain.”

“Yeah. I’ve been a mess before, and I’ll be a mess again. I’ll get over it.”

“But he’s going to expect you to fight…” I stop. Sobs are rushing up my throat, and it’s all I can do to swallow them before they burst out. “Cain. You can’t keep doing this. You can’t let him keep hurting you.”

His hand is firm on my wrist but not harsh. Now his fingers loosen a bit; he strokes the inside of my wrist with his thumb. “It’s my job to get hurt. Always has been.”

“In the cage, maybe, but not…” I stop again. I’m not sure what I’m trying to say to him. I just know I hate this—where we are, how we got here, and the certainty that there’s no real way out of it. “God. I hate him for what he’s done to you. I hate him for what he’s done to me. I
hate
him, Cain!” Everything inside me is breaking apart. I want to fly at Cain, pummel him with my fists until he understands. I can’t do that. He’s hurt. And it’s my father who’s hurt him.