Stolen Crown (DeSantis Mafia Book 3) Read online

  “Do you want war?” I ask them. “Do you want to ride through the streets and spill DeSantis blood?”

  They agree—it’s on their faces. Devils, every last one of them. I’m almost tempted to join us, but as I told Xavier earlier: we’re outnumbered.

  The hate is not their fault.

  It’s not my fault, either.

  “Who killed my father?” I ask, then wait.

  “Jameson,” Turner calls.

  I meet his gaze and incline my chin, and he mimics the movement.

  “Jameson,” I repeat. “Jameson lured my father to a restaurant in Queens, then shot him in front of me. He disguised it as a choice, but there was no choice at all. And you want to take out his army? An army of soldiers thirsty for your blood—but they overpower us.” I’m getting angry, and I let it seep through my voice. “And you want to poke the bear? Cut down our family with senseless attacks?”

  I’ve got their attention now. Their faces are pale, still, horrified. Family. Men I was raised around, who dealt with my parents, who ruffled my hair when they saw me.

  “That isn’t how we win. We are underdogs—believe it or not. Hate it or accept it. We need to start fighting smart.” I smirk. “Lucky for you, I’m used to being underestimated. Used to being seen as the weaker counterpart.”

  Colin flinches.

  “I have a plan,” I say. “But now isn’t the time to discuss it. Now, and this week, is the time to mourn my father and Kai. We need to collect ourselves. Regroup. Heal. And most of all?” I meet as many eyes as I can. “Stay off the fucking radar.”

  I step down onto a stool, and a hand reaches out to help me down. I let them, then blink up at Marius. One of the two who almost killed Aiden after crashing into our bike—one of the scarier members of the family, honestly. Tattoos crawl up his chest and neck. A snake curls up his jawline, ending at his temple. I wouldn’t want to be on his bad side.

  He releases my hand and nods to me. “I’d like to help with protection,” he says. “If you’d allow it.”

  I glance around, then nod. “Knock yourself out.”

  I slip away, to the edge of the room, and sip on the alcohol I took from Colin. The whiskey burns on its way down my throat. The flavor is smokey and lingers in my nostrils. I take another sip, then set it aside. Heat unfurling like wings in my chest.

  Someone pulls out a guitar, and people retake their seats. And sometime later, the stories begin. Marius takes his place at my shoulder, leaning against a wall, and I allow myself to close my eyes.

  I won’t cry—not here. But soon, I’ll mourn my father and Kai and Aiden and every other tragic loss in this pointless war.

  2

  Gemma

  I cross the street and unlock my car door by hand. I just snuck out of my house like a teenager—although back then, I had two parents who gave a shit, a better security team, and less risk. Now I have an empty house.

  Colin was asleep on the couch, so I guess there’s that. He’d freak out if he knew where I was going. Unbeknownst to me, he’s been staying in the Manhattan house while I’ve been with the DeSantises. But that isn’t good enough anymore, and he’s sticking close to lend his support.

  For a week, it’s felt less like support and more like suffocation.

  I love my brother, I remind myself.

  We’re just… different. Our childhoods were almost opposites. If Dad knew what he was doing by leaving me everything, he sure had Colin and me fooled. I would’ve bet money on Colin being Lawrence West’s perfect heir, regardless of the fact that I’m older.

  I navigate into Manhattan, down semi-familiar streets. They’re quiet, but I know better than to assume I’m alone. There’s always someone watching. If they know to look out for me or my car is another mystery. I don’t drive much—never have a good reason to, not in Brooklyn and certainly not in Manhattan.

  The interior of the car smells faintly of cigar smoke, a remnant of the last time Dad and I drove together—to Mom’s funeral. I forced him to let me drive, because I didn’t want to give up that piece of control. He sat stoically beside me until we reached the cemetery, then looped my arm through his and guided me to where she’d be buried.

  After, he rode with me to West Bar. Someone else drove my car home from there, I think. I certainly wasn’t fit to drive it once I snuck into the alcohol.

  Now, my new phone’s GPS helps me figure out the right way. I haven’t been in this area since I was younger. Eventually, it beeps that I’m approaching my destination. I park on a deserted street and climb out. My nerves are constricting my throat, and I take a deep breath before I continue forward.

  The warehouse takes up the whole block. There are huge bay doors halfway down, and a glass one that leads into an office on the corner. I try the office one, but it just rattles in place.

  I should’ve expected that.

  Instead, I circle around and find an alleyway that cuts behind the building. Trucks would probably come this way to deliver. There’s a dock back here and another metal door that says, PRIVATE PROPERTY.

  Yet, it swings open under my gentle tug.

  I hold my breath and click on the flashlight, then step inside.

  In a way, it doesn’t feel like I’ve been away from the DeSantis tower for a week. Five days have passed since my pretty little speech at the celebration of life. The Wests’ patience is wearing thin. They want action, and I’ve been plagued by inaction. I know what I need to do, but I don’t know how to do it.

  Xavier’s men have been in and out, but the man himself has pulled a disappearing act.

  That’s fine.

  He wants Jameson’s head on a silver platter, and the last thing I need is him breathing down my neck to make it happen. He’s providing an additional layer of security, and so far, it’s working. By his report, three attacks have been cut off before they’ve begun.

  Now, I only have to believe that…

  Word on the street is that the Wests rescued me because a larger attack is coming, and they didn’t want me in the crosshairs. Xavier delivered that piece of news, grinning as he kicked his feet up on the desk. He enjoyed that—both my expression and the rumor itself.

  We’ve put out a rumor of our own: that after Lawrence died, everything was left to Colin. Including my care. The thought turns my stomach, but we’re setting the stage for a misdirect.

  Anyway, now I’m here, exploring what I hope will be an empty warehouse. My flashlight’s beam catches on cobwebs and old, leftover machinery. This place used to be a hub for West imports, but it was shut down almost a year ago.

  My father knew its location had been compromised and quietly sealed it off.

  The leak was plugged, but the damage had been done.

  I step through into the main room of the warehouse and blow out a breath when I don’t see anything. Just dust and the remnants of faint memories. Still, I aim my flashlight all around and try to figure out what the hell happened here.

  How a shipment was delivered with none of us the wiser.

  There are muddy tire treads on the concrete that might be fresh… or they could be a year old. There’s a thick layer of dust on most of the machinery, but some of it could be disturbed. I rub my eyes and try to make sense of it. Again.

  Why would someone use an old West storage warehouse to stash the stolen contents of the DeSantis shipping container? If it was still in use, it would look active. There would be guards. People in place to protect against breaking and entering, even if the B&E was to leave something here, not steal.

  But anyone with a brain could watch this place for two, three days and see that it’s abandoned.

  “It doesn’t make sense,” I mutter to myself.

  “This is the address Rubert gave us.”

  I wheel around, and my heartrate kicks up. My flashlight beam illuminates Aiden’s face, and my eyes lock on his face. He doesn’t move to block the light. Doesn’t move at all, really.

  Something in my chest loosens. I hate that my body has this response—immediately nervous and relieved. It’s because he’s alive and nothing else. I have to believe that.

  Because immediately following the relief is a surge of anger.

  “I—” I snap my mouth shut, because I don’t know what the hell I was thinking coming here alone. Or in the middle of the night. What if it wasn’t Aiden who found me, but someone worse? “Did you follow me?”

  He strides forward and stops just a few feet away.

  I click off my flashlight and contemplate reaching for my knife. It’s strapped to my thigh, just out of sight, and my fingers itch to move toward it.

  “You’re stunning,” he says.

  I glance down at my body. The road rash on my arm and leg is healing well, the scabs dark red and shrinking daily. It’s too hot to wear anything other than a loose dress. The last few days have been scorching, carrying over into the night. It’s the kind of heat that makes you feel like you’re swimming.

  “I’m nothing worth stalking.” I remind myself that he doesn’t know what I know.

  He never bothered to ask me—he was too focused on punishment.

  His fucking brother is alive, and he’s still hell-bent on our destruction. Shame on me for not realizing how deep his hatred goes. He fooled me so easily, I’m almost more disgusted with myself.

  I eye his black t-shirt—his trademark—and jeans. Boots. He seems unaffected by the weather. The yellow glow of streetlights stream in through the giant windows, but most of the place is in shadow. It’s cooler in here, but barely.

  “Don’t fucking put yourself down,” he practically growls. “A week. I haven’t seen you in a week.”

  I shiver—and it’s not because I’m chilled. “What would you have wanted me to do? Come knocking at the DeSan
tis tower?”

  His eyes narrow. “Yes.”

  “You wouldn’t have let me leave.”

  “I still might not.”

  I back away, folding my arms over my chest. “You promised you wouldn’t—or have you forgotten?” I want to touch him as much as I want to run. My emotions are jumbled.

  But I get the feeling I’m dealing with the killer Aiden, not the side of him that strokes my hair in the morning or kisses me softly. It only took seven days to erase that version of him. This is the man who would throw me in the trunk of his car. The one who would kill my cousin or his if either got between us.

  “I haven’t forgotten anything.” His voice is low. “You haven’t been sleeping?”

  And of course he brings that up. I haven’t—nightmares have plagued me every night. Visions of him dying in front of me. And then they’ll transform into vivid scenes of my brother’s head exploding, or Kai coming back to life and screaming at me to save him. Wilder looms over me in others, his hand wrapped around my throat. And in every single one, I can’t move.

  Over and over, until I’ve just about given up on ever closing my eyes again.

  But Aiden isn’t dead. He’s here, in front of me.

  I almost don’t believe it.

  I ignore my trepidation and close the distance between us. I put my hand on his chest, surprised at how solid he is.

  “You got shot.”

  His expression softens just the slightest. “I was prepared. I planned for the worst and hoped for the best.”

  I press my hand harder into him, but he’s unmovable. “Hope is dangerous.”

  “And you fought for me.”

  “I—”

  “No.” He traps my wrist to keep me from pulling away. “Whatever excuse, whatever denial, I don’t want to hear it. You fought for me.”

  I did. I shouldn’t have, but I did. And if my family found out… I knew Aiden was withholding knowledge, knew it all by the time I walked down the aisle, and I was still distraught when he was shot.

  Why?

  Questions I can’t answer.

  “We haven’t used this warehouse in a year,” I tell him instead. “Whoever’s trying to frame us has bad information.” Or they want us to think that.

  He clenches his jaw. “And who might that be?”

  I dig my nails into his shirt. “I think you know.”

  “Gemma. Don’t be irrationally afraid of danger.”

  “Why, because I’m not forthcoming with my secrets?” I shove at him. “Takes one to know one.”

  He laughs, unbothered. “Okay, princess. Keep your secrets. But I can’t go another second without kissing you.” He hauls me in without giving me a chance to reply, and his lips find mine.

  All at once, that hollow feeling trapped in my chest gives way to butterflies. My anger dissipates into a deep ache. I hate it as much as I need this moment of reprieve. Our tongues slide together, and I throw my arms around his neck. He runs his hands down my sides and under my ass, lifting me.

  I don’t need more prompting than that. I lock my legs around his hips. He nips my lower lip, and I whimper. I missed this, even when I didn’t want to. And that lust comes roaring back, mixed with something deeper.

  It doesn’t have to mean anything.

  I tear my lips away from his and kiss his jaw. His stubble tickles my lips. I work my way lower, down his throat. He groans and shifts me, and then we’re moving. I nip his skin and soothe the spot with my tongue as he walks toward the closest wall.

  His erection grows against my thigh.

  And then my back touches metal, and his fingers brush my skin. They skate up my legs, sliding my dress up. He stills at the thigh holster he gave me for my knife, the leather sheath. And he seems to fall into a trance for a moment, struck dumb by the sight of it.

  “Armed and beautiful,” he says.

  He resumes touching me like he didn’t just rob my lungs of air. I mirror his frantic movements. He rips my panties off just as I free his erection. I turn around, but he stops me.

  “I want to see your face.” He cups my cheek.

  I almost twist away, but then my stomach flips. A sickening feeling crawls up my throat. Let’s see how good of a liar he really is.

  I let him lift me higher and resume our position with no barrier between us. I put my hands on his shoulders. Watch his face. Absorb everything.

  His gaze flicks down. He slides the head of his cock through my folds, over my clit, and I let out a low moan. I’m drenched, and he knows it. My pussy pulses with the need to feel him.

  I was fine, and now I’m burning from the inside out.

  “Fuck, I love that noise.”

  He pushes into me slow enough that stars burst behind my eyelids.

  “I missed you,” he says, kissing my cheek.

  I let him trail more kisses down my jaw, to my throat. His teeth on my skin blinds me—in a dangerous way. My morals are hanging by a thread.

  He pulls almost all the way out and thrusts hard and slow. I tip my head back. My body shudders with effort. I thought I’d experienced sex in all the ways that mattered—fast and slow, upright or in a bed. But this is something entirely new. I didn’t want this to be intimate, but he’s dragging us there.

  His fingers pinch my chin, forcing my head down to make eye contact with him. I grip his shoulders and meet his eyes—and the challenge there. He strokes a spot deep inside me, and the muscles in his neck stand out at his effort.

  We stare at each other. I hope he can’t see the anger behind my eyes—or my desperation for everything between us to be real. I shouldn’t even travel down that road. I shouldn’t hope that he’s on my side.

  And then he releases my face and touches my clit, and it doesn’t matter what he sees in my eyes because pleasure takes over. His fingers rub quick circles, at odds with the tempo he’s set. I grit my teeth.

  His expression is intense, focused on my face. He seems angry, too. Angry and sad.

  “Good girl,” he says. “A little more.”

  His words are going to be the death of me. I shudder at the burst of wetness between my legs, but he only smirks at my expression.

  “Aiden, I need to come.”

  “Hold it, princess.”

  He speeds up—both his fingers on my clit and his thrusts inside me.

  “Now,” he demands. His eyes are hooded, gaze glued to my face.

  I clench around him, gasping as my orgasm wrenches through me. I grip his shoulders, digging in my nails. My eyes flutter shut. A second later, he pushes even deeper inside me.

  I tense again, and he comes, groaning through his teeth. It’s hot as fuck.

  “Run away with me.” His teeth snag my earlobe.

  “I can’t.” My answer is immediate. But I tighten my hold on him, because I know my reaction might drive him away, and I can’t bear that. I’m experiencing emotional whiplash—pull him close, shove him away. Love him, hate him. Fuck him coldly, then bare my soul.

  If anything, the opposite happens. He bands his arms around my back and hugs me tighter, until we’re flush from where we’re still joined up to our shoulders.

  “Fuck this city, Gem. Fuck our families. I love you.”

  Lie.

  I wonder if he notices my slight flinch. His words are papercuts in my skin—death by a thousand cuts. Has this just been a game to him?

  “This war is bigger than us,” I say. “And I’m not going to let you hurt any more of my family.”

  I lift my hips, sliding him out of me, and drop my feet to the floor.

  He catches my hand before I can back away completely. His finger runs over the ring he gave me, and I can’t decipher his frown.

  “I should’ve taken it off,” I mutter. But it was my mother’s, and I can’t bear to part with it. Even if it’s to shove it in a drawer. And… I was scared Aiden really was gone. Scared like the naïve girl he took to the pier.

  “No.” He raises my hand to his mouth, kissing my knuckles. “You might not be under my roof, but you’re still mine, Gemma West. Don’t forget it.”

  I yank away. I don’t know how he does it, lying to my face like this whole ruse is still carrying on. I’m not strong enough to keep up the charade. “I’m not.”

  His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t refute my words.

  “I’m not yours, Aiden.” I ignore the wet sensation between my legs. The fucker didn’t return my underwear, either. “This whole thing was a con.”