White Knight (Dirty Mafia Duet, #2)(48)

He waves me in with two fingers, and like the errand boy I’ve always been, I step inside at his beckoning. As soon as the thought occurs to me, my feet stop when I’m only halfway to his bed.

“What?” I repeat, my tone sharp.

Creighton swallows, and I’m reminded of all the times I picked up the phone to reach out to him for advice, but didn’t call because he told me he never wanted to hear from me again.

“You’ve got nothing to prove to that old man or anyone else. You hear me?”

My hands clench into fists at my sides. “It’s been years, Crey. You don’t know shit about me anymore, including what I’ve got to prove and to whom.”

“It hasn’t been long enough for me to forget what kind of man you are. You want to get out of this shit? This life? I can get you out. Cut ties with Dom. Walk away and move on.”

The muscle in his jaw ticks, and I have to wonder if he’s holding himself back from straight up giving me orders like he used to be able to. But not anymore. I’m not Creighton Karas’s man. I’m not anyone’s fucking man but mine. It’s time to prove that to every single goddamned person in the world who thinks I’m nothing but a lackey.

“I appreciate your offer, Crey. But I don’t need it. I’m done following Dom’s orders or anyone else’s. I’m my own man, and I make my own fucking decisions.”

Creighton’s lined features smooth out. His dark gaze shifts, and what I see there looks a hell of a lot like pride.

“Be safe then, brother. You and I have a lot to talk about when I get out of here, and I’ll regret it until the last day of my life if we don’t get that chance.”

Brother.

The word hits me like a cement truck.

This man, the one who helped me figure out exactly who I was and taught me so much about life, is recognizing me as an equal. The weight I’ve been carrying around at the breach in our relationship dissipates where I stand.

“I’d like that, Crey. See you soon.”

He nods at me and I head out of the room, almost running into Holly, who is returning with a container from the cafeteria.

“Holly. Take care of him.”

“I will, Cannon.” She smiles at me. “And you take care of yourself.”

I stride out of the room, sure she overheard at least part of our brief conversation. I’m almost to the next doorway when I hear Creighton’s gravelly voice, and my feet stop of their own volition.

“He better not get himself killed. Not now. Not when I’m just getting him back. I won’t have it.”

“Oh, babe. You know Cannon’s not like that.”

“That was before. I don’t know this Cannon, but I sure as hell hope I get the chance to.”

I don’t know if Creighton is aware I can still hear him, but I start moving again, my determination fueled by sources in every direction.

Memphis. Dom. Creighton and Holly. Enzo. Paulie and Junior. The rest of the family. Everyone we’ve lost and everyone who still needs saving.

Their lives are in my hands, and it’s not a responsibility I take lightly.





32





Memphis





Benny shoos me out of the room the second after he puts the thick leather-bound journal in my hand. The only thing he says is, “The names have been changed, but the story’s there. Don’t tell anyone I gave this to you, especially not Dom. Now leave me the hell alone.”

I stroll away from the library with the book tucked under my arm like contraband, waiting until I close the door to my small apartment to yank it out and flip open the cover. On the first page is a handwritten title.



Tales from the Inside:

A Former Mobster’s Memories





Holy. Fuck.

Is this what I think it is?

I’m half-terrified for Benny, but also half-terrified to hope that this is a mob memoir that covers the feud between the Cassos and the Rossettis.

Was Benny going to publish this? Maybe as his last offering to the world before he dies?

I don’t know what to think, but that can wait. Right now, I have some major reading to do.





I get lost in the words and pictures inside the leather journal. I’m almost halfway through the book, and when I look up and blink, the clock has ticked past two hours.

Two hours? Jesus. How is that even possible?

Oh, right. I’ve been engrossed in a hit man’s chronicles of mob history.

As for what I’ve learned about the two families—they were never friends. They were always enemies. According to the handwritten story, Benny thinks the feud began back in the days of Prohibition when both sides were selling bootleg spirits up and down the five boroughs, trying to keep the population of New York well-liquored so the families could rake in as much cash as possible. They lived like kings, with the best of everything, but it was all too often ripped away by the cops who weren’t on their payrolls and judges who despised their autonomy.

Each family did everything they could to throw the other under the bus. At least until the world went to war. Everything changed as men who used to shoot at their own countrymen turned their sights on others. When they came back, nothing was ever the same.

Prohibition was over, and they had to find a new way to make money. Woven in with tales of World War II were the rising and falling tides of the mob and the families that scrambled for power, dodging the law every chance they could get.