Never Have an Outlaw's Baby (Deadly Pistols MC #3)(135)
“It wasn't my idea, babe. I fought the f*cking thing tooth and nail. Daniel and Lev...they wouldn't let you leave without having some way to see what was going on. D told me it'd only help keep tabs on you in case something bad happened. Well, we both know it didn't do shit – and now I know why!”
Fuck. This time, my brother's wise ideas had screwed us hard. They'd f*cked over the trust I'd built with this girl, stained this crazy thing we had with blood and venom.
“You're not even sorry,” she said, lowering her eyes. Why the hell wouldn't she stop looking at that f*cking drink?
“You're dead wrong. There's a lot of shit I regret because without it sticking to me, everything would be ten times easier for everybody. I regret being hitched to this family, son of a bastard just like me. He killed for cred and money and – yeah – he made mistakes. I regret coming along years later and using you to get to the last Italian motherf*cker we've got to take down in the windy city. Fuck, you can believe me or not, but I really regret compromising with my * brothers and letting them slip that shit into your luggage. If it was up to me, it never would've f*cking happened. I'm sorry.”
Her eyes flitted up, distrusting and dark. I didn't give a shit right then if she hated my ass worse than her dickhead uncle. I wasn't gonna let her.
I'd spun her around and made her fall for me before, and I could do it again. I'd never been the kinda bastard to talk about love in words. All the red hot f*cking we'd squeezed into those days did the talking for me before, but now I had to make my damned tongue work, make her realize I wasn't a total dipshit.
I knew how bad I'd f*cked up by going along with my brothers' plan. It wrecked what we'd built as well as taking Gioulio down.
“My old man died with regrets too. I already told you, he never stopped beating himself bloody over that night. I remember it then. I was just getting deeper into the biz. He stumbled through the door all f*cked up on pills and drink, screaming about the woman who wasn't supposed to be there.
“It was supposed to be some bitch named Mercedes. This French whore with a love for good shoes and riding your uncle's dick back before he needed the blue shit to get it up. She was his partner for awhile before she f*cked off back to Paris. Built one helluva gun trade on our turf, and my old man was ready to break the truce to tear her down.
“She was supposed to be there. Bitch was a creature of habit. She'd have her drinks and hit the outlets, harder with Christmas coming. Guess your uncle introduced her to the good old American holiday frenzy, and my old man was determined to make it a fatal weakness.
“Thing is, the sly bitch must've seen it coming. She was still in the bar after my old man did the dirty deed. He f*cking saw her smiling at him through the window, right before he sped off and rolled over the woman he'd just crushed into the ground. He panicked. He f*cked up bad.”
Sabrina swallowed. Hard. Neither of us were there, but I could only imagine how bad it hurt to imagine her mother's bones cracking underneath the tires.
“Don't,” she whispered, harsh, holding back tears.
“I'm done talking about that night. We never found the French bitch. She set your ma up, and my old man died with a stinking suspicion Gioulio knew about it too. They had some kinda fallout not long after that sent her scurrying overseas like a f*cking rat in flight.
“I'm telling you the truth, Sabrina. I know, you've got all the reason in the world to wonder whether or not I'm feeding you more bullshit. I could offer to trot out more files. Whatever the f*ck your uncle showed you, we got our records too. I'm not gonna bother because I need you to hear me out. I need you to listen, babe.”
“What do you think I'm doing?” She sassed. Her cheeks were red, flush with shame and anger.
She was still talking, responding to me. That was something.
I hit the floor and kneeled. I didn't even feel my balls tighten up and try to crawl up my guts. This girl was the first one who'd put me on my knees, and I didn't feel bad about it because she was worth it.
Had to have her. Had to.
Letting her spit in my face and walk away wasn't an option if I wanted to keep my sanity intact, regardless of whatever the hell happened with finishing her uncle. Shit, I'd let her slam those long nails into my f*cking eyeballs and rip them outta my sockets if it would make this better. I'd bleed for her, bleed myself dry.
I was obsessed. A totally whacked out junkie for her voice, her laugh, her touch. A frothing, craven jackal for claiming her, mounting her, f*cking her. Hearing how she screamed with my tongue between her legs, or clenching around my dick was like rock and roll blasting from the heavens.
I couldn't live without that music. Couldn't live without her.
Growling, I grabbed her by the knees, sloshing out a little bit of that shot she was holding. She quickly snatched it up, held it higher on her lap, just looking and looking, waiting for me to convince her.
Fuck. Okay.
“Just keep your mouth shut and listen to me for a f*cking minute. I gotta say this. I already told you about all the shit I regret, all the things my old man died with hanging onto his black heart. All the danger, all the killing, all the *s I've broken apart with my own bare hands...”
I sucked in a deep breath, remembering fifty different f*ckers I'd killed one way or another over the years, including the twenty bastards who'd died in the blast at Club Duce. Their blood was sacrificial. It brought me here, step by ugly step, straight towards the greatest beauty of my life. My missing piece.